


And Then the Witch Doctor, He Told Me What to do

by the_wordbutler



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Chess, Conversations, Gen, metaphors for life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s apparently not all sunshine in the batcave.  </p>
<p>But then, he’d always suspected as much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then the Witch Doctor, He Told Me What to do

**Author's Note:**

> Slight spoilers for 2x04, "Triggerman," as well as for all of first season. The potential for slash is there if you squint. The idea is based off [this exceedingly weird thought I had at the end of "Triggerman"](http://the-wordbutler.tumblr.com/post/52770299400/i-really-want-to-be-there-to-overhear-what-happens). Insomnia created the rest.
> 
> All mistakes are my own, as my readers are asleep and I am a sucker for instant gratification.

“Somebody’s having a bad day,” he says.

Finch says nothing.

Not that he needs Finch to say a single word, of course. The foul mood practically radiates off him, a halo of frustration he carries around like a force field. There’s tension in his every step, in the way he holds himself once he sits down, in the precise arrangement of all his little white soldiers, right in a row.

“We can talk about it,” he offers. Finch’s fingers still, a feather-light touch on the head of his pawn. “Silence starts to wear on a man, especially when he’s having a bad day.”

The piece moves, and nothing else is said.

 

==

 

“At least tell me if it’s John,” he says.

Finch flicks his eyes up for one precise second.

The board’s a mess of pieces spread all over the place, evidencing all the calculated and then half-aborted master plans from the last hour. Every time he thinks he finally understands Finch’s strategy, he changes it; every time he thinks he might just know how the other man views the game as a whole, he sacrifices a piece and proves him wrong.

Really, it’s been an invigorating month.

Finch wets his lips, but then moves his knight.

“I don’t mind talking about John,” he offers, and fells the knight with his bishop.

 

==

 

“He must be a tough guy to get along with, your ‘partner,’” he says.

Finch snorts a sound that he thinks might just be a laugh.

Funny thing about prison: they frown upon limping guys in glasses bringing in actual chess boards. He suspects that Finch owns a quality wooden set at home, maybe even hand-carved, the kind where every piece feels substantial between your fingers. Instead, they’re stuck with cheap plastic pieces and a roll-up vinyl board that slides on the too-smooth visiting room table. 

He spins a pawn between two of his fingers. Finch narrows his eyes at the board, considering his response to the latest gambit.

“I mean, obviously, he and I have certain, let’s say, professional disagreements,” he continues. Finch rolls his lips together. “But I can’t imagine it’s all sunshine in your private little batcave.”

He’s sure, at least for a moment, that Finch’s lips twitch.

An hour later, after the black king’s fallen and the vinyl board’s rolled up, Finch says, “I’ll see you next week.”

 

==

 

“See, this time, I know it’s not all sunshine in the batcave,” he says.

Finch pauses with his hand suspended over his queen, and then withdraws. He sits for a moment, silent and stock still, studying the board. They’re only a third of the way into the game, their pieces still tightly packed. The only victims of circumstance so far are a black knight, a white rook, and a total of three pawns. 

Finally, Finch says, “I don’t remember our arrangement having anything to do with our mutual friend.”

He smiles. “Oh, I don’t know,” he responds once Finch’s moved, and reaches to slide a bishop halfway across the board. “Our arrangement was to help him save an innocent girl and her less-innocent boyfriend. I’d argue he’s at least involved.”

“You’ll find that John is involved in very many things,” Finch replies dryly. He captures the black bishop and places it next to the board. “Often whether you want him to be or not.”

He takes Finch’s pawn. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he replies. Finch raises his eyes away from the board, curious. “I just want to make sure there’s no trouble in paradise.”

“Let me assure you, there is always some trouble in paradise,” Finch returns, and loses his queen three turns later.

 

==

 

“It’s probably worse than you’re telling me,” he says.

“I promise you, it is not,” Finch retorts. They’re sliding slowly into the endgame, pieces littering the tabletop beside them. Finch is different, today, more aggressive, and he tracks the other man’s eyes as he evaluates his next move. Finch’s played quickly and efficiently, but his ruthlessness has cost him dearly.

Somewhere underneath the chess is a metaphor for life, he thinks.

“I thought you said—”

“I know what I said,” Finch interrupts. His eyes flicker up briefly, then return to the board. “The situation was taken care of, and the problem dispatched with his usual efficiency. It was simply . . . ”

Finch shakes his head almost imperceptibly. 

“Frustrating?” he suggests after a few seconds.

“Extremely,” Finch replies, and moves his rook.

 

==

 

“I’m sure he doesn’t always listen,” he says.

“And therein lies the problem,” Finch replies. He’s slower today, more deliberate, and not just with the game. No, the pace of their game is a whirlwind compared to the way Finch moved into the room and sat down, every step carefully measured. He’d waved off the raised eyebrow, but then, he’d also winced when reaching across the table for the chess pieces.

The trouble, as one might expect, is—

“I am not, as I think he once assumed, entirely unfamiliar with the concept of ‘mortal peril,’” Finch continues. He starts to shake his head, flinches, and refocuses on the board. “But I would much prefer he reduce the likelihood of our dying in a proverbial blaze of glory, rather than increase it.”

“You realize he’s not programmed that way, don’t you?” When Finch looks up, he shrugs slightly and leans his elbows on the table. “John, he’s not like you or I. He’s not a deliberate man. He’s reckless, because that’s all he knows.”

He thinks the flutter of eyelashes is Finch’s substitute for rolling his eyes. “I am not sure I’d categorize John as ‘reckless,’” he replies. There’s brimstone in his voice.

“No, you’re right. Reckless, that’s a bit unfair.” He opens his hands, a sign of apology, and Finch finally moves one of his pawns. “But he, I think, can only see the forest instead of the trees.”

“As opposed to what alternative?”

“As opposed,” he answers, “to the entire mountainside that we can see, cliffs and all.”

 

==

 

“He has an entire closet of guns,” Finch says.

The chess board, still in its sorry cardboard tube, sits on the corner of the table next to the flimsy white box containing its pieces. It’s waited for a half-hour so far, and might as well wait a half-hour longer.

Finch’s fingers flex where he’s folded them on the tabletop. 

“I’m sure he does,” he says, watching the other man’s knuckles whiten.

“He insists on devising plans without allowing me more than thirty seconds’ advanced notice,” Finch continues, his jaw tight. “He regularly ruins the suits that I had special ordered for him—”

“Unforgivable.”

“—and despite how frequently I pamper him with treats and toys, Bear always greets _him_ before _me_.” Finch releases his hands in a gesture of what can only be pure frustration. “They’re all such petty things, but in the aggregate, they become nearly—”

“Impossible?” he suggests.

“Mmm, more ‘insufferable,’ I think,” Finch answers. He releases a long, steady breath. “I sometimes forget why I chose him specifically.”

“Hazard of the profession,” he replies with a lift of his shoulders. Finch frowns, the lines on his face creasing. He’s older than he originally appeared, softer behind the carefully-hewn mask of confidence. The man with the glasses, it seems, is only a man in the end. “Furthering a mission you believe in involves a certain amount of suffering.”

“I’d hardly attribute my suffering to the mission.”

“Not the mission, then.” Finch watches him, unblinking. “Furthering a relationship you believe in, really, it involves almost the same thing.”

Finch immediately stills, his hands pressed to the tabletop and his lips parted into a perfectly silent “O.” For entire seconds, he says nothing, and they stare at one another across the table.

“We really must start our chess game,” Finch finally says.

The rim of his ears and the side of his neck are flushed pink.

 

==

 

“Somebody’s having a better day, this week,” he says.

Finch says nothing.

Elias smiles.


End file.
